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Sometimes, as I sit in the exact spot I am right now, I wonder why I’m here. Yea, I’m up at midnight watching a myriad of videos of Tegan and Sara, but isn’t that kind of an excuse? Is that really a reason? I can do that anytime I feel like, anytime I want to. But really, who ever does what they want when they can? Sometimes, we don’t even know if we know what we want…At midnight, I sit awake, seeing those familiar smiles, hearing those familiar laughs, those familiar jokes, those familiar croons.. Every time I do that, I know that the next day is a weekday (5/7 days at least…), I know I have to wake up to go through another day of ceaseless existence. As I sit here now, eating my mini Werthers Original hard candies, staring at a watch that no longer ticks, I wonder…is that a way to live? Or is it a way to exist? Everyone exists, but who really lives? Will I ever get to live? That’s a question that’s haunted me for a while, and an answer comes no closer. I know that even after midnight, I shouldn’t stare at the ceiling above me in bed listening to who knows what. I’m just trying to prolong the inevitable. Feebly trying to stop what I know is going to come anyway, me. My head is a classic clash between the romanticist and the cynic inside of me. F*ck the whole half full half empty thing, this is more of a…the glass will never be half full. F*ck off. F*ck you. Give up. Vs the glass might be half full someday, you never know? Of course, the cynic always overpowers its contemporary (cynical isn’t it?), which is a sad thought. As I wake up, half groggy from the sleep I didn’t get (or perhaps just that though), I run through the usual routine. Wash up. Teeth. Clothes (it’s a bummer I cant put no clothes). Food. Out. Now. The day runs by, and there(here) I end up, once again, at midnight, right here. Hope. People make it by with hope. Hope is something that should never be crushed down, never be put down, but damnit it happens anyway. When I do see it happening, when I’m insightful enough for once to see it, when I’m not blindly ignorant for once in my life, it pains me. With no hope there is no reason. If you stop being angry, sad, anguished, beaten down, well, you’ve stopped caring. What happens when you’ve stopped caring? It means you’ve given up on everything, on yourself. To me, that’s a scary thought. I fear that in myself, and subsequently in others. While that could be used as in excuse to point out my caring nature, it sounds more to me like there’s not an ounce of selflessness in there (it’s a wonder “we” don’t use the metric system, thanks to the stonecutters?...). Or is that just the cynic in me? Is there that part of me that wants to believe I am selfless; I am this part ideal thing, in my own eyes. It’s something that eludes grasp, eludes an arm that may have never been outstretched. Being self-content is something that sounds so magical and far off. Yet at the same time, it sounds like it’s right in front of me, and I just have to reach out of it. I just have to stop at midnight, and reach right into that screen. I just have to stop staring at that ceiling, and look through it. (cynical?...life:content with-you ignorant b*stard….not content-who isn’t you b*tch?) Maybe the reason I’m writing this in one big paragraph, with no cohesion whatsoever, is because I don’t know how. I have no sense of direction, I have no idea of what I want to do, of what I plan on accomplishing by writing this. Then I realize, that, the answer is nothing. There’s nothing I see that will happen from this. But we can dream right? I don't really plan on editing, this, on checking it. I don't plan to make it perfect, i don't plan on reworking it so it fits together. I dont really see how, why, or what? It coulda shoulda woulda. I’ve been tired for days and days…

-digitaldelay